


Idiot

by hautesauce



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sam Ships It, Stubborn Castiel, macaroni and cheese, possibly too much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 15:16:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9447152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hautesauce/pseuds/hautesauce
Summary: Dean finally spills the beans to Castiel who panics. This is a hot, angsty mess, centered largely around macaroni and cheese.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> A happy birthday present to the lovely [AliceZero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceZero/pseuds/AliceZero), my sister from another mister!

Dean squeezed his eyes together tightly before slowly opening them. His lids abraded like sandpaper, leaving grit in their wake. He grimaced as the dim light of the room forced its way in, and he tried to roll away from it using his hand as cover. He blinked again painfully, in an attempt to discern his surroundings. 

He was on the floor.

Of his motel room.

Again.

His head throbbed, like an egg being squeezed through the neck of a bottle. Everything burned; his skin, his blood, the hot stink of whiskey coming from his stomach all stung almost unbearably. But then again, he’d felt like that yesterday, too. 

And the day before. 

And the day before. 

It had been that way for two weeks, and lord knows he deserved it. Two weeks since he’d made the worst decision of his life. Two weeks since he’d fucked up everything royally. Permanently. 

He tried to push himself to standing and hissed as he pressed his palm down onto a broken shard of glass. He pulled his hand up to examine the damage with puffy eyes. It was a deep cut, one that most likely required some form of medical attention, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He rose to standing, blood dripping down his hand and speckling the floor around the broken remnants of the empty handle of bourbon shattered on the ground. He smelled sour, and patted his shirt down with his uninjured hand to find that he’d sicked up on himself. 

“Just great,” he mumbled as he plopped down on the bed. He stripped off his soiled overshirt and threw it into the corner with his other ruined laundry, and then peeled off his sweat-soured t-shirt for good measure. He wrapped it tightly around his injured hand, rolled over onto the bed, folded a pillow over his head to block out the light, and passed out.

It had been two weeks since he’d told Castiel he loved him.

* * *

 

Sam was alone in the bunker, bleary eyed and exhausted. It had been two weeks of searching, two weeks since Dean had up and left. Sam had done everything in his power to locate his brother. He’d tracked phones, credit cards. Searched traffic cams, safe houses, called up everyone they knew, or sort of knew, and no one had seen or heard from him. It was almost as if he had vanished off the face of the earth. Jody had offered to come by, to help him with his search, but Sam declined, saying she should stay with the girls. He did, however, gratefully accept her offer to put a local APB out on the Impala and anyone meeting Dean’s description.

He wasn’t sleeping.

He wasn’t eating.

He was afraid to leave in case Dean came back.

He’d even summoned Crowley, who arrived with his trademark snark, but after hearing Sam out even he seemed to soften. He shook his head sadly, saying, “Sorry, Moose, I haven’t heard anything. If I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

He’d prayed to Castiel, desperate to find his brother before something bad happened, before Dean did something bad to himself. But, of course he didn’t answer. Why would he answer? Sam was there, he saw what had happened, on that night two weeks ago.

It had been two weeks since Dean had told Castiel he loved him.

* * *

 

Castiel sat on the crappy bed of a crappy motel room, remote in hand, staring blankly at an infomercial for some sort of skin smoothing product. Or maybe jeggings. Or a blender. He’d seen so many, sitting in that room. He hadn’t left the spot in days. He hadn’t tended to his vessel; his eyes were bleary, face haggard, stubble grown in. He’d thrown his coat and jacket to the floor. He didn’t need them. He didn’t know why’d he’d ever bothered with them in the first place.

The TV was on mute, had been the whole time. He sat in silence, nothing but the occasionally kick from the air conditioner to keep him company and the room noises from other guests. Shouting, laughing, fucking. The chatter of humanity, the most beautiful sound. He knew now that he was only made to spectate, not participate.

He closed his eyes and remembered, replaying the scene in his head for the seven thousandth time.

They had stood in the kitchen of the bunker, both of the brothers and Castiel, as Dean attempted to show them all how to make perfect macaroni and cheese.  

“Ok, you start with the boxed stuff, but it’s gotta be the blue box, not the yellow box…”

Sam rolled his eyes despite grinning at his brother’s enthusiasm.

“And you want the elbow pasta, not the shells. Nobody likes the shells…”

“Why do they make them, then?” asked Castiel gruffly.

“Who make what?”

“The macaroni and cheese manufacturers. Why do they make it with shells if no one likes them?”

Sam snorted but said nothing.

“Cas,” Dean said gently. “I’m sure someone likes ‘em. But something is wrong with those people so let’s move on, shall we?”

Castiel nodded.

“So if you look here, you can see I’ve already par-boiled the macaroni. Never cook it as long as it says on the box. It gets mushy. In a separate pan, heat up the cream and slowly stir in the cheese powder. ” Dean brushed past Castiel to reach a spatula, letting his hand linger on Castiel’s arm for a longer than normal period of time. “Then you add all these diced cheese bits and heat it up until it’s all melted.” Castiel stared intently as he kept whisking and the lighthearted look on Dean’s face was intoxicating. 

“Cas,” Dean said, green eyes highlighting an easy smile, “Will you throw in the macaroni?”

Castiel smiled back and nodded, picking up the colander and easing the noodles into the pot. Suddenly, the colander slipped from his hand and fell toward the floor. They both reacted simultaneously, reaching down to catch it but instead only managing to smash their faces into one another.

“Sonofabitch!” exclaimed Dean, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes squeezed shut.

“Dean, I am sorr--”

“Cas, don’t,” Dean interrupted. He looked up to meet Castiel’s gaze with a smirk on his face. “When I said throw, I didn't mean literally.”

“Are you okay, man?” asked Sam from behind.

“Just a broken nose, I suspect,” he replied. Castiel’s eyes narrowed with concern.

“You can always use you angel mojo to kiss it and make it better,” joked Dean. 

The comment had warmed Castiel. He always enjoyed it when Dean flirted with him. It helped fill the hole in his heart, the one reserved for Dean, if only a little bit. It would never be completely full. That would be out of the question. Impossible. Unacceptable. He’d never wish that on Dean, on Sam. Better to stand to one side than in between.

“It would be my pleasure,” said Castiel softly. He reached his hand up to the side of Dean’s face so as to transfer a bit of healing grace into him, but as he did suddenly Dean was moving toward him. Before he even had time to register what was happening, Dean’s lips had found purchase. They were soft, and burning, and their touch opened floodgates through which poured all of the pent up loneliness and frustration that had twisted Castiel into his current neurotic mess. 

Castiel stood rigidly as Dean pressed in, and Sam stood by completely agog. After about five seconds of gentle, reverent kissing, Dean softly pulled away and rested his head against Castiel’s. 

“Shoulda done that years ago, Cas,” he murmured with his eyes closed. “I love you, you idiot.”

Castiel stood bolt upright and took a sizable step back. “What… what did you say?” he rasped. 

Dean blinked, stunned. “I-I… love you, Cas. I mean, I figured it was pretty obvious, and I shoulda said it years ago, but better late th--”

“I should go,” interrupted Castiel coldly.

“Wait, what?” blurted Dean. 

“This cannot be, Dean,” he growled. “I can no longer stay here.”

Dean’s voice took on a desperate tone. “But why?”

Castiel cast his stormy eyes downward and spoke softly. “Because I love you too. But I also know that no one can come between you and your brother.” He voiced dropped to nearly a whisper. “I could never ask that from you. This will only... complicate things.”

“Dammit, Cas!” exclaimed Dean angrily. “If I didn’t want this, I wouldn’t have fucking asked for it.”

“I don’t think you know what you want,” the angel spat back. “If you did truly love me, why wait so long to tell me? Why torture me, for years, to have it finally bubble over now in a conversation about macaroni and cheese dinner?!”

“Look, Cas--”

“No, you look!” the angel exclaimed, voice scraping the ground. “This will never work. I won’t start something that I know will end badly. We’ll be happy for a while, but then it will degrade over time. I can’t bear watching your love turn to disdain. I can’t threaten your relationship with Sam. I won’t do it. So I’m going to go now.”

Dean swallowed, face awash with despondent defeat. “Are you… will you come back?”

Castiel’s expression was just shy of shattered. “I don’t know,” he gravelled softly. “You can’t retract what you said. We can’t come back from that.”

“But you do love me?”

Castiel paused. “Yes. And now I have to go.”

With a flash of static, he was gone. 

That was two weeks ago. Two weeks since Dean had told Castiel he loved him, two weeks since he’d left. Every night since then, Dean had prayed to Castiel.

“Cas, if you can hear me, please don’t leave me. I can’t do this alone, I don’t want to. Let’s just talk, okay? I’m going away for a while, away from Sammy so I can think. I’ll tell you where I land.”

“Cas, I’m in Bozeman, at the Royal 7 Budget Inn. I’ll be here for a while. I’ll wait for you.”

“Cas, dammit, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay? I shoulda known better. I fucked up. Please just come and talk.”

“Please Cas? I’m still in Bozeman, I’m still waiting. I’ll wait as long as I need to.”

“You know what Cas? Fuck you. I went out on a limb, and you spat in my face. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

A week in, Dean’s tone changed. Castiel could tell he was intoxicated, increasingly so, day by day. 

“You know how many times I’ve wanted to die, Cas? To give up? How close I’ve come to putting a bullet in my brain? You think Sam’s the only reason I’ve held back? You’re a fucking idiot.”

“Cas, I won’t apologize anymore. I love you, I am not ashamed of it. I waited too long, put you second for far too long. I promise I… you won’t be second anymore. You never were.” 

“I’m still waiting, Cas. I’ll keep waiting, you bastard. You can’t hide forever.”

“Castiel, you stay gone and I dunno what I’m gonna do. I dunno…”

“Cas…” Dean began. Castiel rose from the bed and leaned his forehead against the wall. He could hear the gruff, slurring voice on the other side. Truth was, he’d come to Montana as soon as Dean told him he was there. He’d been right next door to Dean the whole time. Castiel heard every emotion, felt every biting word. He sat quietly, day after day, waiting for new prayers to come. He could never leave Dean, not really. This was his penance for letting things go too far.  

“Cas, it’s not right. It’s not right for you to make this decision without me, you feathery bastard. You *hic* must be blind and deaf to not see it. How much I love you. I’mma fuckin’ idiot…” 

Castiel heard something slide and thud onto the floor on the other side of the wall. This wasn’t the first night Dean had passed out in the middle of praying, but the combined weight of all of his desperate pleas and attempts at amends and spiteful putdowns pushed Castiel just far enough to send him flashing to the other side of the wall. His breath caught when he saw the state of the room. Dean laid on the floor at the foot of the bed, surrounded by empty beer and whiskey bottles in various states of wholeness. Dean was shirtless and sweaty, groaning and attempting to writhe to a seated position. The bed was a sweat stained tangle of sour sheets. There was a toppled desk chair, a shattered lamp. The TV was on the same infomercial channel that Castiel had been watching. Castiel noted that Dean's hand had been bound with a red rag, however upon closer inspection it became clear that it used to be a white t-shirt. 

With ease, Castiel lifted Dean from the floor and laid him on the bed on his side. Dean moaned as the angel gingerly unwrapped his hand, revealing an angry, infected gash badly in need of stitches. He held his hand out over Dean to focus the soft white of his grace into him, closing the wound and alleviating him of the more critical aspect of his intoxication. Dean's eyelids fluttered as Castiel laid his hand gently on his shoulder and transported him to the other room, the other bed. It was there that Dean rolled over and fell asleep. 

Castiel sat on the bed and watched him for a while with a heavy heart. He was supposed to care for Dean, watch over him, protect him no matter the cost. He knew now that his current behavior was completely counter to that objective, that he'd walked away without real evidence of the potential for failure. Could he really predict that things would go wrong? That he'd jeopardize Dean's relationship with Sam? Or was this yet another example of him thinking he knew better than everyone, just like with the souls of Purgatory and the deal with Lucifer? 

He swallowed hard. He knew what he needed to do. He stood, and then vanished, leaving Dean alone to sleep.

* * *

 

Sam leaned on the map table with his head in his hands. His anxiety had turned into sorrow and exhaustion. He hadn't showered in days, his long hair lank and greasy. Suddenly, he felt the quality of the air in the room change, and with a soft whumph there stood Castiel, equally haggard in his tie and shirt sleeves. 

Sam flailed to standing. “Cas! You came back! Have you seen Dean? He disappeared when you left! I--”

“Yes, Sam. I’ve seen him,” he said softly. “That’s why I am here. I need to ask you a question.”

“Yeah, Cas, what is it?” he said, breathlessly.

“I require your permission,” Castiel said softly, unable to look Sam in the eye.

“Permission to what?”

“To… to be with Dean.”

Sam furrowed his brows. He spoke slowly, as if he was speaking to a small child. “Are you kidding me?”

“No, Sam, I do not find this particularly funny.”

“Why on earth do you think you need to ask for my permission?!” exclaimed Sam in aggravation. 

“Because you come first, Sam,” he said softly. “You’ve always come first. You  _ will  _ always come first. If I… if I apologize to Dean, and he forgives me, the dynamic will change. It may change in a way that is detrimental to us both. If I act, I want…  _ need  _ to know I have your support.”

Sam didn’t speak for a while, but stared curiously at the angel. The weight of his gaze pushed Castiel’s eyes to the floor. Finally, he spoke. “Cas, what makes you think I’m first? And that you’re last?” He cleared his throat and took a step toward Castiel, then another, until his hand was resting on the angel’s shoulder. “You know I’ve known about his feelings for you for a while, right?” he said softly. “I mean, it was a few years ago, back when you were human. He got drunk, told me everything.”

Castiel’s tearful eyes darted up to meet Sam’s. He squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “You deserve to hear this, Cas. He said he’d pushed you away, that seeing you every day was too hard, too painful. He was afraid he’d lose me, he said. So I’m going to tell you now what I told him then: I’m a fucking adult. I can take care of myself. You two are my family and you’ll be my family no matter what. He loosened up after that, a little bit more every day. Two weeks ago? He was finally loose enough to be himself.” Sam shrugged as Castiel blinked away tears. “Only took five years. Do what makes you happy, Cas. Lord knows you deserve it. Both of you.”

“I fear it may be too late now,” gravelled the angel, voice wet and heavy with shame.

Sam smiled. “It’s not too late, I promise you. Find him, fix him, and bring him back. You hear me?”

Castiel nodded, and then vanished with a crackle of ozone.

* * *

 

Dean groaned and rolled over, pulling the blankets tightly around him. He yawned and blinked slowly. He could hear the faint sound of running water in the background, and felt what could have been the weight of a gentle hand resting on his hip. He sighed, soft and sad, knowing full well he’d never actually feel that hand. Not now. 

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean froze. Had he finally done it? Drank so much that he was seeing things, hearing things? “C-Cas?” he rasped, afraid to turn and see that it had only been his imagination.

“Yes, Dean. I am here,” he replied gently.

Dean carefully turned over and propped himself up on his elbows. He squinted at Castiel, who had removed his tie and sat on the edge of the bed in his slacks and shirt only. Castiel managed a small smile.

“Am I dead?” croaked Dean hoarsely.

“Hardly,” said Castiel with a raised eyebrow.

Dean pushed himself to sitting. He went to rub his eyes and saw that his hand was no longer a septic mess, and held it out to Castiel. “Your handiwork?”

“Indeed.”

“So you finally heard me?” asked Dean morosely.

Castiel nodded. “I heard you the whole time. Every night.”

“Why did you wait so long? Why didn’t you come sooner?”

Castiel furrowed his brow and stood. He held out his hand to Dean, who took it with trepidation. “Come with me, Dean,” he said tenderly. 

Dean’s adam’s apple bobbed below his jaw as he rose to standing. “Are you going to leave me again, Cas? Because if so, you shouldn’t have come back at all. I--”

“Come with me,” he said again, this time with a half smile. Dean nodded, and allowed Castiel to lead him to the bathroom.

“This is not my room,” stated Dean flatly.

“How did you guess?”

“You’re getting sarcastic in your old age, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”

They walked through the threshold of the bathroom and Castiel let go of Dean’s hand to lean down into the shower stall and turn off the tap. There before them was a piping hot, soapy bath, the steam coming off it fogging the mirror and slicking the linoleum under their feet. Castiel pressed his lips together and took a step toward Dean, who went rigid with apprehension. Without touching him, Castiel leaned in close to Dean’s ear, and the warm puff of his breath tickled the hairs on his neck. Dean positively ached for contact, but instead Castiel merely whispered.

“You smell terrible.”

Dean snorted with laughter, and the flecks of gold in his eyes proved too alluring. Castiel’s head darted forward and caught Dean’s smile with his own. It was a chaste kiss, soft and sad and meandering, and when they finally broke apart to breathe they knew they didn’t need to apologize. 

Castiel grazed his fingertips along the muscles of Dean’s chest and down his stomach, and Dean’s breath caught in his throat when they reached the button of his jeans. Castiel unzipped them and let them slide to the floor to pool around Dean’s bare feet. 

“Let’s clean you up,” he said reverently, huge blue eyes seeking approval he didn’t need to ask for. Dean nodded, and slid his boxer briefs to the floor. He stepped out of his clothes and Castiel took him by the hand as he gingerly lowered himself into the water. It was hot enough to make him hiss, just the way he liked it.

Castiel kneeled next to the tub and stared at Dean, who leaned forward with his legs folded up and his arms draped over his knees. He soaked a washrag in the soapy water and brought it to Dean’s back, stroking in slow, languid circles. Dean closed his eyes and hummed as the angel worked up his neck and across his shoulders, then down each arm. Each caress erased a hesitation, a doubt. There was nothing sexual about what they were doing, and in that way it was even more intimate. They were there for one another, with nothing between them. 

“Lay back,” directed Castiel quietly. Dean did as he was bade, allowing himself to slide down into the water so Castiel could wash his chest.

“You’re not second,” murmured Dean with his eyes closed, lost in the ebb and flow of Castiel’s strong, steady hands.

“It doesn’t matter,” Castiel mumbled back.

Dean’s eyes opened and found a pained look directed back at him. “You’re not. I should have told you sooner.”

“Yes, you should have,” he nodded in agreement. “But my reaction would have been the same. I think I know what’s best, and time and again I am proven wrong. This time is no exception.” He wet the rag again and wrung it out, then began gently wiping the sweat and grime from Dean’s face and two week old beard. 

“So you’re staying?” Dean asked hopefully when Castiel had finished.

Castiel tipped his head as a smile twitched on his face. “If you’ll have me.”

Dean reached up and grabbed the front of Castiel’s shirt to pull him in close. “I love you, you idiot,” he whispered before kissing him again. This time it was less than chaste.

  
  



End file.
